Pull in, I directed the driver, my long-suffering yet quasi-adventurous brother-in-law Ken, pull in! And drive around back!
It was a rapidly disintegrating, Spanish stucco affair, with low arched walls and a red-tiled roof. In the weeds, it was. Literally. And, therefore, right up my alley.
Through the gate—we're in!
We came to a full stop around back of the house, whereupon Kenny, happily game, and I (the others being put off by the potential for rattling vipers, biting mosquitoes, and stultifying humidity) waded through a thick stand of weeds (where, I realized later, there may well have been a rattling viper or two, the island having once been known as “Snake Island” and for very good reason) and made our way into a rear courtyard. What a sight we saw!
But first, an editorial comment: If this is, or was, a “mansion,” my name is Wallace Simpson.
Mansion? Are you kidding me? For Charlie Mansion maybe (wink), fond as he was of living rough and low in old movie ranches, but truly, even in its heyday, I can’t imagine this edifice ever qualifying as anything more than a Spanish rambler. And unless we’re talking about Zorro, that’s pretty much an insult. But I digress.
To be continued…
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